


Carcinogenic

by TweekTweak



Category: South Park
Genre: Drug Abuse, M/M, Sex Work, not sure what else to tag rn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TweekTweak/pseuds/TweekTweak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A face appears above me, and I all but have heart failure. Sitting up, I identify the face as that of Tweek Tweak's.</p>
<p>"Hi, Craig Tucker!" he beams, letting go of his book with one hand to wave at me.</p>
<p>“Hey, Tweek Tweak!” I nod.</p>
<p> “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>I figure that ‘waiting for you!’ would be a weird way to respond, so I just shrug and say, “I was just taking a walk, and I found myself here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carcinogenic

This is always the worst part; waking up spread-eagle on the dirty living room carpet, feeling as if I’ve died several times over. I have a ridiculously painful headache, and I stumble a little as I stand up. I spot my used needle lying on the floor a short way off (and oh god, the carpet really is disgusting. I think it was cream coloured at one point, but years of muddy trainers, spilled drinks, and vomit have dyed it several shades of hideous browns and reds), and I pick it up; the house is messy enough without me leaving used sharps everywhere, after all.

Somewhere in the house music is being played a little too loudly. My head nips and I curse the guy who invented techno, but then again I suppose I should be used to rough comedowns by now. As I’m sluggishly dragging myself through to the kitchen I trip over some grubby stranger who has passed out in the hallway. He doesn’t stir, and if he was conscious he’d probably be too strung out to do much, judging by the needle still hanging from his forearm. I shrug and continue into the kitchen, where I dump my used needle in the bin before filling the kettle with tap water and letting it boil.

Taking a seat at the breakfast bar, I fish my small bag of weed from my hoodie pocket and roll a joint mainly to take my mind off of the pounding in my head. Lighting it, I let it dangle from my lips as I go to make a cup of coffee. It takes me a good five minutes to find a lone chipped mug at the back of the cupboard, and I have to stir my drink with a butter knife because there are no spoons left in the drawer.

Sitting back down, I place my coffee on the bar and take a particularly heavy drag on my joint. I think about my teenage years as the smoke dances inside my lungs, as I often do when smoking up; something about it just takes me back a few years. Of course, seventeen year old Craig was getting high in a friend’s basement instead of in a drug den, but I suppose with time comes change, as they say.

I drink my coffee quickly, discarding the mug in the sink when I’m finished, before pulling my hood up over my head and leaving the house through the back door. My eyes burn a little as I’m thrown out of the darkness of the den’s blackout blinds and broken light bulbs and into the bright August sunshine. I look behind me at the small suburban house for a moment; one of the windows has been boarded up for a couple of weeks, since some guy that Bert pissed off bricked it; someone has written ‘junkie scum’ across the back door in an untidy sharpie scrawl; Bert’s shitty car has been keyed. The whole scene is thoroughly unattractive, and I turn and leave quickly, sidestepping the broken glass scattered across the driveway as I go.

Realizing that, yet again, I’ve lost the keys to my mom’s flat, I check the time on my mobile. It’s about half three; mom won’t be home from work for another two hours at least. I sigh, and decide I’ll loiter around the old park for a while; no one really goes there since the new one was built on the other side of the estate, so the chances of seeing anyone other than a few stupid teenagers dealing their shitty home grown are relatively slim.

Sitting down on one of the rusty swings, it takes me a good five minutes to realize I’m not alone; perched at the top of the slide is a figure cloaked in dark blue skinny jeans and a baggy black hoodie. He hasn’t noticed my presence, too immersed in what looks to be a book balanced in his lap. My curiosity peaks; I used to quite enjoy reading before I got sucked down into the world of substance abuse, and I find myself wondering what the stranger could be reading –a familiar title, perhaps?

“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” a male voice smirks, and I jump, not realising I’d been spotted. I stand, the chains of the swing groaning in relief when they no longer have to support my weight, and I make my way across the dirty tarmac to the slide.

“What are you reading?” I ask, nodding at the boy’s book.

“Not reading,” he replies, “Sketching.”

“Oh, cool,” I smile, “Can I see?”

The boy considers for a moment.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “But don’t laugh; they’re just rough drawings!”

He passes his sketchbook down to me, not letting go until he’s sure I have a firm grip on it. I silently pray that I won’t do something stupid like drop this guy’s drawings in a muddy puddle or something because, while he doesn’t look like he’d beat me into a life support machine, that would pretty much put an end to me socializing with anyone ever again (apart from Bert, obviously).

I carefully open the book and inhale sharply when I see the first drawing; I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting, but when the boy had said ‘rough drawings’ this definitely wasn’t what I’d pictured.

“Dude, you’ve drawn like every fucking leaf on every fucking tree!” I look up at him, amazed. Then I look around at the park, and fucking hell his sketch could well have been a photograph.

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and says, “Thank you?”

I turn the page to see another incredible drawing, this time of a block of flats. I recognize them; they’re about half way across the estate from my own, and I ask him if he lives in one of them.

“Yeah,” he replies and I’m kind of surprised that I’ve never seen him around before. But then again I’m always round at the den (Bert’s house? I’m not 100% sure who even owns the place) so it’s not as if I would have.

“I’ve not lived there too long though,” he continues, “I just moved there from across town about a year and a half ago.”

“I’ve lived in this shitty estate my whole life,” I say (somewhat bitterly), “But now that I’m a mature adult I’m not around here much.”

“Out partying all night?” he chuckles, and oh how wrong he is.

I agree with him.

“I’m not much one for parties,” he comments as I continue to look through his (amazing) drawings, “Hundreds of people all crammed into a tiny house? No thank you.”

I reach the last drawing in his sketchbook. It’s unfinished, but still pretty accurate. He’s drawn the swings and climbing frame and the fence closing in around the children’s park. I notice the vague outline of a person sitting on one of the swings and point to it. “Is that-?”

“You? Yeah,” he shrugs, and I smile, passing his sketchbook back up to him. “I won’t draw you in if you don’t want me to.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just surprised you would.”

“If I didn’t ignore the empty beer bottles on the ground, I can hardly ignore the full grown guy sitting on one of the swings,” he laughs.

“That makes me sound really weird, dude,” I say and he agrees.

“There’s not a kid in sight though, so don’t worry. I come here to draw all the time and I hardly ever see anyone.”

“Most people go to the new park,” I say and he nods.

“This park is much nicer though, don’t you think?” the boy muses and I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Even with all the rust on the swings, and the graffiti and empty crisp packets everywhere?”

“Well yeah,” he says, “It has a bit of personality, doesn’t it? And it makes it more interesting for me to draw, so that’s a plus.”

“I suppose.” I still find the park unattractive in just about every way, but I don’t want to sound like a twat and disagree. He shoots me a knowing smile as if he can tell what I’m thinking.

“I feel kind of rude for not asking your name,” the boy changes the subject, “I’m Tweek Tweak, nice to meet you.”

“Craig Tucker,” I reply, “Likewise.”

Tweek smiles and leans down from the top of the slide to give my hand a quick shake. Then he looks down at his sketchbook and asks me, “You wouldn’t mind sitting on that swing again would you; so that I can draw you into my picture?”

“Sure,” I shrug, and walk back to the swing set and sit down. I watch Tweek draw for a minute or so, before reaching into my pocket for my weed. I roll another joint and light it for something to do with my hands, and by the time Tweek announces that he’s finished drawing me it’s mostly gone. He beckons me over and shows me the drawing and I marvel at how it really does look like me.

“Wow,” I tell him, “It’s great.”

“Thanks,” he replies, a small smile dancing across his lips.

“Thanks for leaving out my spots.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to answer this, looking flustered. “I, uh-”

“I’m joking dude, relax,” I say quickly, feeling kind of bad for making him uncomfortable. “So, like, are you doing this for school, or what? Your drawings I mean.”

“Hmm? Oh, no, I just like to draw,” he shrugs. “And I finished high school last year; I’m nineteen.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” I say, “I dropped out of school when I was sixteen. Couldn’t fucking stand the place.”

“School’s not for everyone,” Tweek says, and I get the feeling that he understands shit.

“Mom wasn’t too happy when she found out I wasn’t gonna go back, but if I’m honest it was probably the best decision I’ve made in my life. Maths and essays and shit just wasn’t for me, y’know?” I take a drag on my joint before offering it to him. He declines and I shrug, taking another draw.

“You must make some pretty bad decisions then,” Tweek jokes, “But then again, don’t we all?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Tweek sits and talks with me for another ten minutes or so, before he checks the time on his mobile and frowns. “Shit. I’m sorry, I really need to go; I didn’t realise it was this late. It was nice meeting you though!” he excuses himself, sounding genuinely disappointed that he has to leave. Clutching his sketchbook tightly, he pushes himself down the slide, grinning like an eight year old, and stands up when he reaches the bottom, tucking his sketchbook under one arm and walking over to me.

“See you around, Craig Tucker,” he smiles at me, and it’s only when he’s looking me dead in the eye that I see how incredibly _green_ his eyes are.

“See you around, Tweek Tweak,” I nod, and I watch as he walks away towards the grey flats towering behind the trees.

I check the time on my own phone after he leaves; it’s twenty past five. Mom should be back from work soon. I walk through the estate towards her flat, and when I get there she’s already home. I mumble a quick “hello,” as I duck into my room to find some money, before going through to the living room to let her nag me about this and that and ‘Craig, you’ve gotten too skinny!’, ‘Craig, you need a haircut!’, ‘Craig, are you off those goddamn drugs yet?’

I don’t answer and instead sit down on the old sofa and stare at the TV blankly for a few minutes, and it’s only when my stomach whines loudly that I realise I have no idea when I last ate.

“I’ll get you some pasta,” mom says, standing up and going through to the kitchen. I consider telling her not to bother – after all, I can always stop at Domino’s on my way to Bert’s or something – but mom makes a particularly mean macaroni cheese so I decide I can take the time out of my busy schedule for a bowl or two.

I eat quickly, not caring that I’m probably going to give myself indigestion, before mumbling something to my mom about ‘going out, see you tomorrow’, and I pretend not to notice her frowning at me. I feel bad, knowing that she worries about me so much, but I’m twenty two years old; I can take care of myself, thank you very much. I close the front door behind me, and go downstairs two at a time. Someone has thrown up in the corridor again (probably the fourteen year old boy who lives a floor below mom, who I often see binge drinking with his friends around the estate) and I mumble “attractive,” when I pass it as I reach the front door of the building.

It’s gotten considerably chilly out for an August evening, and I’m glad I have a jacket on to shield me from the cold breeze as I walk across the estate to the familiar house. I push open Bert’s front door and hear loud music being played from through in the kitchen. Somehow the man himself still hears me enter though, and he comes through into the hallway a moment later, bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. His girlfriend is hanging onto his right arm, but releases him to greet me in a mess of black hair extensions, red lipstick, and what I take to be a drunken attempt at a hug.

“Craig!” she beams, pressing a kiss to my cheek, “Haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Hi Katia,” I force a smile, desperate to just buy my fucking drugs already, and thankfully she picks up on this through her drunken haze, smiling at me a final time before returning to Bert’s side. She stumbles a little as she walks, her heels too high for someone in her drugged up state, and Bert grabs her before she falls clean over.

“Woah there!” he chuckles, keeping a tight grip on her arm as he walks towards me, “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, babe!” He offers her his half smoked cigarette and she takes it, smoking the rest while Bert talks to me.

He pulls me into an excruciatingly tight bro-hug, which I do my best to reciprocate. I try not to breathe in his disgusting greasy-hair-and-too-much-Lynx odour, which proves difficult, and thankfully he releases me before I suffocate.

When I tell him what I need he leads me up to the second floor of the house, wisely choosing to leave Katia on the ground floor due to the high risk of her falling straight back down the stairs.

“I love that girl,” he tells me as we walk upstairs and I mumble an agreement, not at all interested in Bert’s personal affairs, “I think she might be the one.”

I don’t reply, letting him rummage around his room for the kit, and I press several crumpled notes into his hand when he passes me some black tar and a bag of weed.

“I got some great new pills too; fancy trying some?” he offers, and I shake my head no, partly because I’ve never really trusted pills in any shape or form, especially when it’s _Bert_ offering them, and partly because I just want to fucking nod, is it too much to ask?! “Your loss,” he shrugs, popping a couple of the small round pills and washing them down with a mouthful of his whisky. He offers me the bottle when he’s swallowed them, and I take it. I’ve never been a fan of Jack, but I knock back a couple of mouthfuls regardless, and hand the near-empty bottle back.

“Thanks,” I nod, tucking my gear into my hoodie pocket as we walk through to the first floor landing.

“No bother mate,” he smiles his crooked smile, flashing a set of chipped yellowing teeth. He then scratches his bearded chin absentmindedly and says, “I should probably go and find Katia now, before she does herself an injury. You enjoy that though. No-one’s staying in the guest room tonight, if you need somewhere comfortable to crash?”

“Cheers,” I nod, letting him wrap an arm around me for a second time before he goes back downstairs. I then go through into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind me. I don’t bother turning on the light (the bulb is probably broken anyway), and I sit down on the unmade single bed. I pull the kit out of my pocket, along with my lighter, a clean needle, and one of my mom’s silver spoons (which I have to carry with me everywhere because god only knows where Bert’s have ended up over the years). Dumping everything on the bed, I cook the shot using my phone’s torch for light, and when I finally shoot the drugs into my system, I find myself thinking about the boy in the park, and his green eyes that could probably see into my soul.


End file.
